Three forty-five
by winteress2712
Summary: It all started at three forty-five. Where a troubled man, Raf, happened to cross the line. One patient dead, her husband's strife, its a long struggling battle to stay alive. It all comes down to Raf's one act of revenge. It all started at three forty-five but where does it end?


He arrived at the hospital a lot earlier than usual. He'd been awake since three forty-five. It was mid October and the morning sky seemed particularly dark and heavy. His head was weary. His feet were swinging though he lacked rhythm. As one worn adidas trainer swung, no sooner did the other. But was it worth the effort? Was it worth the humiliation? His mind was a battlefield, his emotions were at war, his thoughts were conflicted and then of course there was the cold. Was it so wrong that he couldn't face leaving the car; that his work life was feeling less of an honour and more of a chore? Well if his marriage was a ship then it was a sinking ship and if his passion was a wreck then there was no preserve. And if he was a shipwreck then he was at the bottom of the deepest, darkest ocean. His skin began to feel chill as his heart pumped a harsh beat which seemingly rattled against his ribcage. It was a brief orchestra of muscle, blood and rattling bones which his forever-wandering mind had unintentionally conducted. The hairs rose on his legs and arms, some were curved over at the half way mark, others remained unnaturally straight to the very tip. "How chaotic..." he thought whilst observing the body hair which, in his fatigued trail of thought, appeared to depict an army of little Scottish Warriors at war across the width of his forearm "...and how ironic."

Mixed in with the exhaust fumes from his car he was sure that he could smell the faint metallic odour of blood. The blood of the patients where he was going to work. At least he was almost sure.

A foot thrashed forward in an effort to stand but the thigh, the pelvis and the buttocks, were evidently, less willing to 'scrub in' than the adventurous foot. "How cruel would it be of me to unsettle this natural field of golden leaves, to melt their silver frosted jackets, to crumple their soft angelic surfaces, to tear apart their delicate beauty and all within the single touch of a mud riddled, chewing gum smeared, heavy landing rubber sole," he thought. He could almost laugh at the ridiculosity of such a stupid thought. It reminded him a lot of his younger self. How this traitor of a foot had once ventured bare across a Winter Wonderland which had found him struck knee high in a garden blanketed with snow. How there had been no care on his part whether his ruthless walking meant the massacre of flowers, the wipeout of wildlife, the risk for frostbite to kick in, or the milder prospect of chilblain. If something had to give, well, then at least it was worth the pleasure of childhood memory.

But what had become of this ruthless warrior? Well, the answer remained slumped in a red car which strangely enough, perfectly matched the blushing red tone of embarrassment in his cheeks. For here he was now, age thirty-nine, scared to face the heavy conscience that would come from walking across a pile of leaves; a pile of unembellished soon-to-be-dead-once-the-cold-had-sucked-the-life-out-of-them leaves. And he knew, Raf Di Lucca knew from self experience that it was just a part of life, a never ending cycle of struggling, suffering, hard work and death. He'd seen it once too many times before and he was about to see it play out once again before his very eyes; he just didn't know it yet.

Glancing unhappily at the miserable tone of blue in the sky and the smokiness in the clouds, Raf hesitated. The result was somehow sinister. Another harsh pounding in his heart was enough to lower Raf back down into the surface of his driver's seat. He could think of nothing better to do but think harder about why he was thinking about what he was thinking. And feel nothing but disturbed about the concealed source of his disturbance. But now, just as he was eyeing up the entrance of Holby City Hospital, the white characters of the "Welcome to Holby City Hospital" sign seemingly flashed at him in a harsh unwelcoming red and the bright blue background behind the letters dimmed until it echoed the misery of the early morning sky.

He heard the sound of tyres, and in an instant one foot lowered hastily on to the ground whilst the other remained pondering over the pedal. Raf's eyes reached a gradual fixation of disgust as he glanced at the abrupt flashing of yellow headlights through his right wing mirror. The hatred in his eyes was terrifying; undoubtedly real but to Raf it may as well have been a dream for all he could think to do now was get out of the car and make his way past the hospital entrance.

A grey car, roofless and vintage drove further into the car park whilst its owner, Doctor Harry Tressler, ruthless and fidgeting with his seatbelt which was digging deep into the side of his throat was somehow still managing to sing a sweet, operatic rendition of "Lovely Day" from the top of his lungs; and in tune. But Raf refused to show any admiration. Deep down he may have been impressed but given the circumstances he was anything but.

"Lovely weather this," said Harry, pulling his car into whichever space was first available to him. Raf figured that this was because it was his easiest option but he wasn't sure that he cared enough to be too certain. To Raf his parking seemed careless and he made more noise than necessary when closing the car door. Everything about him was careless and clumsy, yet every breath, every movement, every sound was performed with a given element of pride. Raf pulled down on the sleeves of his jacket in an attempt to shield his knuckles from the blistering cold. Harry followed carrying the persistence of a needy child, "or are you more for the rain and misery? You know for some reason I can picture you sat underneath a willow tree, carefully think... carefully telling yourse-"

"Do you want to end up as wrecked as my marriage Doctor Tressler?" said Raf fiddling with the contents of old tissues and crumbs in one of his coat pockets.

"Oh come on Raf. It was just a bit of banter. What happened to you anyway? Rough night?"

"I am what you made me Doctor Tressler. And whilst we seem to be on the topic of asking stupid questions, especially ones which shouldn't concern you, why don't you tell me why the sky's blue?" Raf frowned into the comfort of his scarf.

Harry walked on without answering before stopping at the entrance. Turning around, a small ray of light beamed from the fierce blue in his eyes. Raf raised an arm which flopped over at the elbow to shield his eyes from the sinister glare.


End file.
